


From Grace Fallen

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Long Night, Others Invasion, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-12 14:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5669338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tenuous peace is reached between the extending Kingdom of the North and the broken Kingdoms of the young stag's through the wedding of King Robb to the Tommen Baratheon's sister, despite the mysterious disappearance of Sansa Stark and Stannis Baratheon's claims resounding throughout Westeros.</p><p>With the fall of the Wall, all attention is turned towards the invading White Walkers and their waight companions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

 

 

Lyanna brushed back Robyn’s tumble of dark locks and shushed the weeping child with as much gentleness as she could muster. The babe hungered, she knew. They all were. “There, there,” she soothed, staring into the small wrinkled red face. She brought a knuckle to the child’s mouth. The babe fastened on it and suckling hard, trying to obtain sustenance. Her own stomach tightened at the thought of food. What she wouldn’t give for a morsel, even a few crumbs of black hard bread.

But the peace was not to last. Once she understood there was no milk to be had from the dry, cold skin, Robyn began weeping anew. Lyanna set her down on the bed and prayed that there was at least some thin gruel left.

She made her way to the lone pot on the table and lifted the covering. There was perhaps a meal in there for the child.

She poured the contents in a small bowl and placed a spoon on it, returning to the weeping babe. She set the bowl on the bed carefully and picked up the child again the babe’s mouth. Robyn swallowed the food, gruel trickling down her dainty chin. Lyanna continued to feed her, praying she would not be sick from it. There was precious little food as it was.

A soft rap on the door distracted her. “Come in,” she called. Myrcella’s head poked in. “Come, Your Grace, come out of the cold.” Not that the room was any warmer than the hall.

Myrcella nodded to whoever has been following her and entered the chamber.

Rosamund Lannister slipped in beside her mistress, carrying a small bundle in her arms. Lyanna tsked softly. “You should not take him out in the cold.” Prince Cregard gave a short whine as if in agreement. “What would your husband think of it?”

“Nothing I should think,” Myrcella replied. “The wind is howling something fierce and I fear the temperature shall drop even further in the night.” As per custom, she had come to find shelter in the company of another.

Lyarra could not send them away. The Queen placed another pot near hers on the thick-legged table. “Rosamund, give me my son,” she demanded, taking the babe into her arms, cooing at the boy. The tuff of red fuzz atop his head seemed to have gained in length. “And how fares our little Robyn?”

“As well as can be expected. The poor mite.” Her heart wrenched at the sight of the babe gnawing on the wooden spoon. “All alone.”

“She’s not all alone,” Rosamund cut in, touching a hand to the babe’s curls, a sweet smile upon her face. “She still has her father and she has you. Isn’t that so Myrcy?”

“Of course,” Myrcella answered sitting down on the bed herself. “Had I any milk to spare I would have fed her myself.” And there it was, the sweetness of the lioness. As if it could be doubted.

Tall and rounded as an effect of birthing, Myrcella Baratheon was likely to give the impression of health. But the poor woman was no luckier than countless others for all the slopes of her form. The cruel winter, sparse food and hard living conditions had not even allowed for natural sustenance for her child, the future king in the North.

“‘Tis naught. I know you are as kind and good a woman as ever lived.” She looked down upon the daughter in her hold, so much like her father. “Do you think they’ll catch something?”

There were many mouths to feed and the best of everything went to the soldiers who were fighting. Even so, Lyanna would have been more than pleased with meat-water if it could be had. Myrcella gave her son to Rosamund and asked for Robyn. Lyanna gave her up willingly. Her flesh pinched with the blood rushing beneath the skin.

“We can but hope,” Myrcella answered, rocking Robyn with a mother’s gentleness. “She’s so small, this one.” Small and scrawny. They were all of them that. “’Tis a pity her mother perished as she did.”

The winter had set in like a curse, bringing with it one blight after another. Lyanna had been a child when it all began, no older than ten years and certain it would be a grand adventure to battle her way through an icy invasion of otherworldly beings, raised on tales of such monster and the brave warriors who stood up to them in the days of yore.

Instead it was a nightmare. At four-and-ten she wished for the summer with a desperation that nearly brought tears to her eyes.

“Aye, a true pity. The girl’s mother was a good sort of woman,” Rosamund added, rocking Robb’s heir back and forth. “To leave behind this poor creature.” Cregard’s tiny fist took hold of a golden tendril, tugging on it.

“Hush, Rosamund. What words are those? Little Robyn well cared for,” Myrcella told her cousin. “’Twould serve best to look upon the blessings we have.” Ever the optimist, the Queen smiled upon Lyanna.

Jon Snow did love his daughter. Lyanna could not deny that. And he had also loved the mother, if his reaction to the child was anything to go by. Lyanna had spent no time whatsoever with the wildlings woman, for when they’d arrived at Winterfell, Jon had already been parted from the flame haired creature and Lyanna had been at the time serving the queen. Aye, at that time King Joffrey had yet lived, may the hells swallow his blackened soul. His lady wife, Queen Margaery had even been carrying according to some. It had come as a shock to hear news of the babe’s demise, although, Lyanna could but wonder how that had come about. It was to be hoped that the disappearance of the King’s sister at about the same time had nothing to do with it. Although with a man the likes of Joffrey Baratheon one could never be certain.

It was best for one and all that King Tommen had taken his brother’s place. Not half as shrewd as his brother, but many a time kinder, the young ruler had proved himself capable of little enough, which was all one could expect from a child. Yet it certainly made one glad to be rid of the predecessor. Better a weakling than a tyrant. Lyanna shook her head, the thought registering as it should. A weakling indeed, but with a golden heart; the gold of Lannisters, as it would seem. It should be interesting to see if he pulled through the winter.           

That he had gone as far as to wed his dead brother’s widow had surprised but his sister. Queen Myrcella, despite the currently held position, still clung to beliefs in tales and songs. It was mayhap that which made her so dear to her spouse in spite of the dispute, still unsolved between their houses.

The gods were cruel, there was no denying that. Lyanna did not think she would ever forgive them for creating man, only to abandon him in the hour of need, hiding away in their carved faces, not a whisper to be heard. What sort of creator would look upon those on need and instead of aiding, offered no response, leaving them all in the hands of those icy creatures come from the wild unknown, their blackened souls knowing no honour. What could be done in the face of such monsters? The old gods seemed to have fled and the new held no power over the Others if one took the time to look at the antics of septons confronted with those cold corpses. Only just a week past one was felled with the swipe of a hand, if she recalled it well.

“Lyanna, what are you dreaming about?” Myrcella’s voice cut through her train of thought. “You look as pale as death.” Soft hands pulled on her shoulder, dragging her slight frame higher onto the bed. Lyanna tried to protest when Myrcella insisted she get under the covers and sleep. “Shush. I shall hear none of that,” the Queen berated her, “you will catch your death if you continue on so. Sleep.”

“But the babe,” Lyanna tried to protest, despite the fact that Robyn had quietened down, her and the Prince content in the Queen’s arms.

“She’ll be well enough in my care for a few hours. Rosamund, make sure she sleeps while I take the children myself. The King will not thank you to be falling all over upon his and the men’s return.” Myrcella’s order was met with a soft nod from the cousin.

Likely he would not thank her at all to make a scene, the young woman thought. Lyanna shivered lightly, not from the cold, mind, but from a feeling settling low within her. Rosamund drew the covers over her eyeing Prince Cregard in his mother’s hold and slid into bed with Lyanna, one hand against her back, pressing together for warmth. The presence of an unfamiliar frame beside hers was disconcerting, but Rosamund simply began humming a tune in the back of her throat and waved Myrcella away.

“You needn’t worry for little Robyn. I shan’t let anything happen to her.” Aye, true that. The Queen loved children something fierce. “Rest. You truly look as if the Stranger has a hand around your wrist and is fully prepared to drag you away.”

Were it so, Lyanna would have only been too happy to follow. She would rest. But not because she wished it. It was simply that Myrcella’s orders were to be followed in her home; nothing more and nothing less could Lyanna see to it.

“Enough of this, close your eyes and let us rest awhile,” Rosamund said, her lank golden hair touching Lyanna’s cheek when she jolted lightly. Slim arms wrapped around her, so much like a gesture one of her older sisters might have done back home with a knowing smile upon her face. Rosamund fell silent after, her mission accomplished. Breathing softly, shifting slightly every now and then, the Lannister maiden was quick to sink in the world of dreams.

For Lyanna, it proved difficult to fall asleep. Her body was restless, waiting, tensing by and by, only to fall into an odd sort of spell after, but never relaxed enough to follow Rosamund. She felt fragile, ready to break apart and crumble into dust, brittle skin drawing tight over bones that felt too large, sharp edges poking painfully through, nearly cutting into the flesh. And the nightmare would go on and on for as long as her eyes remained open, that much she knew.

Lyanna sighed, wishing she had the luck of her companion for once. But nay. ‘Twas not to be.

The wind was howling without, just as Myrcella had claimed. And for some reason, Lyanna fancied it was crying out her name. She about gently, Rosamund having fallen into the sweet slumber on the end of a warm puff of air, innocent looking and at ease even in the face of the creeping black veils. Lyanna looked at the darkening sky through the high lancet, eyes upon a particularly large cloud.

Night would come soon. She wanted to plead or even bargain with the gods to keep those men who were without the walls of Winterfell safe; their return delayed. All living things knew what came with the first sliver ray of moonlight. And if the hunt was drawing as long as it did, there was a good chance they would be caught in that trap of nature.

She parted her lips to speak a prayer, but she found that the words would not come. Stuck at the back of her throat, they were content to leave her as she was, mouth open and gaze fixed upon the skies.

She had forgotten how to. That was the only explanation coming to mind, for even in the face of powerless gods, Lyanna could not admit apostasy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Val’s nimble form ripped itself out of the shadows’ hold. The gold in her hair shone warm beneath the light of fire, melding together strands. “Nothing yet,” she said, not to Jon, but to the whole company. She took her place among the spearwives, her weapon held high, tense in waiting.

Jon glanced at the King. If they remained without much longer they would undoubtedly be beset upon by those foul creatures. It was enough to have his heart shuddering in disconcert, the thought of icy chips glowing in the eerie moonlight. He looked ahead. But there was nothing to be made out.

The elk lying dead at their feet was still being bound by the men, its lank form yielding little enough in the way of looks. But it was more than they’d head before, and thus enough to quieten even the bitterest of tongues. Enough for Jon, as it were, to quieten his own mind upon the subject.

His brother finally gave a nod and the beast was tied to a hearty horse. “Let us be on our way,” Robb declared, turning his steed around with a sure hand. He kicked his legs into the horse’s flanks, his whole host of retainers doing the same. Night was fast approaching and the taste of death lingered about them even though the winds blew mightily. Nature itself seemed to know of the festering wound, decrying its vile effects.

The horses ploughed on through the thick layers of snow, behind them coming the pedestrians, carrying their weapons. It was a slow advance, ill-advised in such conditions, though unavoidable. Robb had been determined to return with spoils. His men could do little but bow their heads and follow. Wide tracks separated the sea of snow as the company made its way through the gathering darkness.

Jon gave a low whistle upon noting the return of Grey Wind, expecting that Ghost should follow any moment. Not one to disappoint, the direwolf appeared from the other side, not getting too close lest he spook the horses. The King’s wolf kept to his place, the both of them sentinels.

Howls rose from deep within the forest, the perpetrators unseen. Wolves abounded in the cold season, though they rarely approached large parties, unless desperate. Yet their very presence was well received. It meant that there were no living corpses for the moment to worry about, nor Others wandering the planes in search of victims.

The group continued onwards, small voices breaking the silence every now and again. Jon experienced a surge of impatience, the desire to ride ahead bothersome in its unexpected appearance. Something would not let him be. The man looked about, eyes searching for anything that might explain the unease. Ghost’s form appeared in his line of sight for a brief moment and the feeling intensified. His grip of the reins tightened, the steed neighing in soft protest at the treatment. But Jon was still looking after the direwolf and heard not the other beast.

Ghost’s silver length was lost behind a line of trees.

“What makes you restless, brother mine?” Robb’s voice resisted in his ears, distracting him.

Was it foolish of him to worry? “I should hope ‘tis naught,” Jon answered. “Your Grace, we should make haste.” Least his hopes prove to ne little but flighty dreams.

Tension snapped the likes of a whip, its length enough to deliver the licking blow from the head of the column to its rear. The whispering grew louder and louder still, iron and copper drawing out in preparation, torches lit to aid in it all.

Jon’s own hand flew upon Longclaw’s hilt, the smooth surface hard beneath the layer of leather covering his hand.

The King, however, gave a light snake of the head. “Not yet,” he whispered as his own fingers took grip of Ice, the great sword. “Greet them when they arrive.”

His steed trembled beneath him and Jon knew, in that very moment his fears were confirmed; the otherworldly was waiting for them. Fie to them for not being quick enough in their hunt. Now they should face the wrath of hungering beasts.

The white direwolf appeared ways before them, his brother’s pace hastening as well. The two remained just in sight, leading the cautious company through the dark.

Grey Wind howled, the sound drawn out and long, menacing even, as it announced the arrival of an enemy no doubt. The two beasts sprang as one upon what seemed to be raising mounds. Jon turned his face towards the men and women behind him. He signalled the archers with a nod of the head and a few arrow tips were lit at the silent command.

The first row flew past his head, making for the first arrived monsters. One of them was caught straight in the chest, the rotting corpse bursting into flame, the acrid stench of smouldering flesh filling the night sky.

Unfortunately, as that one fell, another rose to take its place. But the soldiers behind him knew their lesson well. A second wave of flaming arms momentarily cast its light upon them, this time all hitting a target.

The direwolves retreated, making their way to the side of the masters.

Those upon horses dismounted, pulling out the weapons they had. Lit torches were passed about until each man had one in their hand or was at least close to someone who possessed a light. Compact rows gathered together, the warriors holding a collective breath.

It had come the time.

A stillness took over. All eyes were drawn to the darkness, waiting for the waights to creep out of the shading veils and attack.

The enemy did not keep them waiting long.

The first to spring forth was a man missing a limb, face scarred and drawn, in his sockets two points burning bright. His appearance so close broke through the thin restraint, the warriors scattering, jumping upon all others that followed, weapons clinking, wood hissing as it was split open by greedy flames.

Longclaw embedded itself in the side of one such attacker, keeping the living corpse at length enough for Jon to cast a flame its face. It stumbled backwards from the force of the push it had received, the flames slowly spreading over the expanse of frosty, peeling skin.

Someone cried out behind him.

Jon pivoted around, coming face to face with a fierce battle between Ghost and the undead. The direwolf jumped upon its combatant, knocking the body to the ground even as stiff fingers grabbed at the fine fur. The blade of Jon’s sword came down upon the shoulder of foe, separating limb from corpse.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 1

Not many were still with the waking. Jon supposed it was for the best. He winced as his wound was jostled whilst he dismounted, paying little attention to the squire come to taker his horse. Instead, he turned questioning eyes towards his liege in a something resembling a request for permission. Looking about as tired as Jon felt, Robb Stark grimaced at Olyvar Frey, his instruction clipped. His own wounds were scratches at best. Robb gazed at Jon afterwards. “Have Tarly look at that.”

But the former brother of the Watch shook his head. “There is no need to distract the man from those more needy.” The gods knew there were enough of those. As for himself, Lyanna had cleaned wounds before, she’d do it again. The thought of Lyanna, absentminded as it had come, brought a surge of something tumbling through him. The reluctance with which Robb accepted the answer was positively heart-warming. But Jon had other matters to contemplate at present.

As soon as he was dismissed, he made his way towards the tower in which his bedchamber could be found, not doubting for a moment that he would find Lyanna and his daughter there. Clambering up the stairs along with a few other housed within the same premises, Jon stood before the door of his bedchamber in what seemed like mere moments. He pushed the door open and was comforted with the sight of Lady Mormont’s youngest daughter holding his only child in a gentle manner.

Mormont women were motherly. That he’d seen countless times before, even with Dacey, by far the one least likely to take on such a role. It had not given him much cause of awe that Lyanna would be much the same in that regard. What he’d not expected had been her devotion to Robyn. As soon as the babe chanced in her arms, Lyanna became the little bearling the banner of her house so readily displayed. That feminine instinct to care for and nurture ran its course most advantageously, Jon considered, watching the young woman offer a quiet greeting over Robyn’s dark curls. His sleeping daughter paid no mind to his arrival, content to dream on.

“Shall I aid you, ser?” Lyanna questioned, moving to place Robyn upon the bed. She knew the answer to her quarry before she’d put it to him. Jon allowed her to come near him with that stilted step of hers, watching quietly. He saw her eyes dart to the bloodstained steel. “You are injured.”

He merely held his hand forth for her to go on in silent command. Lyanna moved around, fingers working on the knots and clasps to divest him of the protective layer of steel. Not the brightest of ideas, to be sure. If a month past it might have helped, the cold had grown in intensity and even the layers worn beneath to stop the metal from doing him injury were of little use. Lyanna took away his armour bit by bit. No gasp left her lips when she surveyed copious amounts of blood soaked by his tunic. Instead she peeled that off of him as well and folded it neatly upon a nearby stool, giving him leave to sit on a second such bench.

“How fared Robyn during my absence?” There was still little food to be had and the poor mite often gorged herself only for her stomach to refuse to keep much in. They’d hoped she would grow out of it, but every time he came back and Lyanna told him otherwise his heart squeezed painfully. He’d lost Ygritte. He did not think he could stand to lose Robyn as well.

“Better, ser. She has, I am sure you shall be glad to know, managed to keep all that she has eaten down.” Now that was news he was glad for. Jon nodded his head towards the young creature busy wringing out a strip of cloth in a bowl of water. The ghostly tendril of steam climbing towards the ceiling made it clear what she meant to do. Ever unfailing in such situations, however, Lyanna went through the routine of explaining her intention. “I will cleanse your wound and stitch it.” She’d done a lot of stitching with those hands.

In the beginning it had been Sam to do it. The more wounded came in, the less time he had and by and by Jon drifted towards other available hands. Like Lyanna’s. She’d taken up the care of his daughter and that of his wounds. A better woman he’d rarely seen. Jon merely closed his eyes at her words and allowed her to go on.

The hot and wet cloth pressed against his open injury gently, producing a grimace from him. Jon sucked in air through his teeth. This pain was not the worst thing. He’d had worse wounds dealt with. Over the sound of his heartbeats he heard her frail apology. Jon dismissed it momentarily. The flat of her hand met with the uninjured portion of his shoulder, as if she were trying to steady herself. The scarping against the split raw skin continued, its painful drag jolting him ever so slightly. Jon forced his eyes open.

Lyanna was inspecting his wound, clean small fingers hovering above the gash. He felt his own fingers tremble, unsatisfied with the inactivity. Patience had never been a friend of his. Jon sighed softly. The woman’s eyes moved to him, watching, prodding. When he said nothing, she returned to her work. “If we are not quiet, we risk waking the babe.” It was likely a reminder for when she’d be sticking needles into his flesh. He nodded.

The sting came soon enough. In the beginning he’d been sewn with fine translucent thread. There was none of it left and the Reach was much too distant to procure any, if any had been made. The needle pierced his skin. Lyanna proceeded to complete her task with due diligence, the wound reducing under her ministering. Jon glanced at her work, trying to appreciate the fines. If that could bot be gouged, her natural grace would do just as well.

There was no underlying motive to his admiration. The thought was not new, this manner of justification as efficient this time as it had been previously. A sliver of guilt wormed its way into his heart. He’d not meant to compare apples to peaches and yet there he was, comparing the two. Like the hard, bitter fruit of early spring, Ygritte had been a pain Jon had endured with the conviction that there was something there, just beyond those eyes of hers that spelled out forever. The pain he’d only noticed afterwards. Lyanna was similar in some respects and yet very different all the same. The very way in which she responded to him, rather like he was a mystery, not the challenge Ygritte had made him out to be. Or might be he was imaging it all for Lyanna pulled away gently, a sudden fear flaring in her eyes; the same look a doe might have before a snarling direwolf. Jon wonder briefly is he’d been snarling at her.

“That should do it.” His words. Jon surprised even himself by speaking them. He’d not been speaking about her stitches though. Fine as she was at nursing him through his injuries, Lyanna’s stitches were not nearly as even as he would wish them. But then again, jagged scars were not something he shied away from. In fact, he had enough of them for a whole collection.

“Aye.” There was no soft smile on her lips as she released the word from between her lips. Like the husk embracing the sweet fleshy body of a ripe fruit the sound peeled away to reveal meaning. Jon shuddered lightly. “Don’t strain it. They’ll come apart otherwise.”

Comparing the two of them truly wasn’t fair. The thought reverberated throughout his mind. Not fair at all. “My gratitude, my lady.” He’d not put it in a mocking manner, although those were words she’d told him a thousand times before. He’d also ignored them that many times before. Straining the stitches holding him together was the only thing he could do.

“Any of those creatures out on this night?” There was that fear they had all of them without failing become so accustomed to. The creatures; the demons, some said. “Or was it just wights?” The corpses were easier to deal with, very much so. Jon shook his head.

“No Others.” If only there had been. But nay, it was just corpses. “Mayhap another night.” He held one hand out towards her, silently asking for the wet rag. Lyanna did not hand it over, however. She rinsed it in water that no longer ran hot and then wiped over the injury once more herself. Only after did she relinquish her prize in his hold.

He met her steady gaze, deliberated with himself the matter which he was about to broach, then put it to her without an ounce of shame. One simple word. Just a request. “Stay.” The night. The winter. The rest of his life. He was not sure which, if any of them, were the silent attachment. What he did know was that, in a fashion most expected, he had need of company. Not hers exactly might be. Jon did not fancy himself in love with her. But he enjoyed her company enough to know that he wanted more. As much, even, as she was willing to give. Their Queen might have well been a Southron lass in need of septons and pretty words, but Northerners needed none of that.

They were in the middle of winter and even within the walls of Winterfell, it chilled the very bones to be in such dire straits. “The choice is yours.” As well it should be. With the influx of Wildlings from without the Wall some customs had been regarded as curiosity and others as amusement. The very notion that a woman might choose to bed down with a man before wedding him had been by far one of the most popular ones. They all sought comfort.

She lowered her gaze away from his, seeming to contemplate his request. Then, to his astonishment, Lyanna proceeded with the following line, “I shall agree, provided that I am allowed a request.” Not the very common thing, to be certain. But not something anyone might take exception to. If she wished for something in return for her time and attention, who was Jon to deny her?

“If it be within my power,” he allowed curtly, “I shall be only too pleased.”

“If – when the winter passes,” she stuttered, flushing lightly, “any child we might have between us, if it be a she must take my name.” Once more, her cheeks took on a becoming red colour. “That is to say, I should wish it–“

“There is no need for you to explain yourself.” He could not very well expect her to embrace the Snow surname. “Or might be I should like an explanation, why only the daughters.” Provided there were any children at all. Lyanna Mormont, for all those motherly traits of hers, seemed much too young, too thin with her reed-like wryness, too everything to bear him either son or daughter.

She bit her lower lip. “I made a promise to my lady mother.”

To Maege Mormont. Jon raised one eyebrow at that. “To piece together a clan of warring she-bears?” he questioned lightly, meaning it as a jest.

“Quite so, ser.” It was then that she smiled. “I shall put Robyn in her cradle.” As good as her word, she took the babe and placed her among soft furs. The child was bathed in warm light and certainly close enough for any sound she made to be heard

Belatedly, Jon wondered why exactly she’d accepted. He would have asked, but Lyanna turned towards him in the next moment, a sharp look in her dark gaze.”On this very night, ser?” Her fingers moved uncertainly towards the side laces of her kirtle. And by the gods he wished to agree, but with his fresh wounds and the image of her before him what actually came out of his mouth was the opposite.

“On this night we sleep,” he gave the reassurance noting her stricken look. “I fear my lady shall find me a wanting companion in these circumstances. When I am in better repair, however,” he trailed off upon a slight wave of the hand.

So he simply gestured for her to climb into the bed and joined her presently, wrapping his uninjured arm around her waist. He felt her settle in the crook of his arm and against his side. In mere moment her back was turned to him. Were he to check, Jon was certain he would find her feigning sleep. He supposed it came easier to her. She would grow used to it, he shrugged softly, retaining his position, going as far as to press further into her. She stirred, moved about lightly for all of a couple of minutes before settling back into his grasp.

Jon closed his eyes. The gods only knew what the morrow brought. He ought to be well rested for the confrontation.


End file.
